


Night Visitor

by theofficegirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theofficegirl/pseuds/theofficegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock visits John while he sleeps.</p><p>BBC!Sherlock.</p><p>This has not been beta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Visitor

Sherlock crouched gracefully at the bedside, pale moonlight flashing on the dark curls of his hair. His silk striped pyjamas whispered as he moved to his knees, eyes curiously studying the figure that lay in front of him. 

John lay on his side, face squashed against his pillow, mouth slightly open and eyes tightly closed. Due to the heat of the season he had abandoned his typical t-shirt/boxers combo and lay half naked, arm curled under his head, the duvet twisted haphazardly around his bare legs.

Sherlock watched silently at John’s frame rising and falling with each breath, assessing the movement of John’s pupils beneath his eyelids and concluded with a smile that John was in deep REM sleep as he always was at this time of the morning. Well, the mornings they didn’t have a case anyhow.

Visiting John while he slept had become a habit for the insomniac detective, one he found more addictive and harder to give up than the cigarettes. He had perfected the stealthy entrance and subsequent navigation of John’s room and could make it to his present position without even thinking. Of course, John’s military habits helped. The room was sparsely furnished and what little possessions John had were always neatly tidied away every evening before bed.

John’s features were softly lit by the glow from the electric clock beside him. It read 03:24. His breath brushed soft and warm against Sherlock’s cheek. A warmth stole into Sherlock’s pale eyes as he surveyed John’s sleeping form. He looked so peaceful and vulnerable, a mere child. Sherlock’s desperate urge to protect John at all costs came to the fore during these moments; an urge he had never previously experienced for anyone, anywhere. Not for Mycroft. Not for Mummy. Not even for himself.

Sherlock’s gaze moved to the milky flesh of John’s shoulder, and with an extra spark of interest, he registered that for the first time since he had indulged in these nightly visitations, it was John’s left shoulder that was exposed for examination. The shoulder the bullet had entered in Afghanistan and ended John’s military career. The bullet that Sherlock would forever be grateful to as without it he would still be alone, his heart empty and cold. 

Sherlock shifted his light frame to better study this area of beauty, this spot of destiny. And there it was: an irregular shape with raised pink edges no bigger than a two pence piece. Sherlock’s cool fingers traced the circumference of it slowly, gathering data as they passed.

One inch wide wound, fairly circular, entry at 20 degrees passing straight through the left scapula. Shot by a right handed sniper from 65 feet. Type 56 assault rifle, Taliban army issue since 1993. 

“It must have hurt, John,” Sherlock whispered as he continued to outline the scar. “But I know you weren’t frightened. You were more worried about your patient than yourself. Typical John.”

Suddenly John began to moan, eyes darting wildly beneath his lids, fingers spasming in and out of fists. Sherlock withdrew from the shoulder and watched John’s face as it contorted. 

“Sherlock,” John gasped in a small voice as his body continued to twitch.

Sherlock took John’s fingers in his own and murmured to the sleeping face, “I’m right here, John. It’s all okay.”

John’s movements became more erratic and his cries increased in intensity.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!” 

John’s eyes flew open and his hand gripped Sherlock’s in fear. It took a few moments for him to focus and for his sleep-fogged brain to comprehend it was now awake.

Sherlock waited in silence, a vague amusement on his lips. John’s gaze met his and a furrow of confusion creased his brow.

“Sherlock?” he said, his voice thick with sleep. “What…what are you doing in my room?” 

“You were having a nightmare, John. I came in to make sure everything was alright,” Sherlock replied, his own voice like velvet in the darkness.

John absently let go of Sherlock’s hand and propped himself up on his elbows, the exit wound from the bullet now visible in the half-light. Sherlock chanced a glance there but his eyes swiftly returned to John’s, which were being rubbed softly with the heel of his thumb. 

“A nightmare?” John muttered. “Well, I can’t remember what it was about. It can’t have been too harrowing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock said, a hint of familiar mockery in his tone. “You called out my name a few times so subconsciously you requested rescuing from something dastardly.” 

John regarded Sherlock warily at this, feeling his cheeks burn. “I did?”

“Yes, several times. I felt obliged to check and see whether you were in any real danger.”

Sherlock grinned catlike in the darkness at John’s bewildered expression. He lithely jumped to his feet and made a show of taking up the electric clock and pointing at the red figures there. “Seeing that you’re obviously fine, I’d best be off. I have a feeling a big case will fall into our laps tomorrow so you should get some rest. Lestrade’s been quiet for two weeks or so, so a juicy scandal is due our way.”

John shot a shy look at Sherlock’s retreating form and ventured, his voice sounding tight and timid, “you, er, don’t have to go just yet. I mean, you could stay for a little while, if you wanted to that is.” He added with some difficulty, “maybe until I fall asleep.” 

Sherlock turned slowly, surprised by this sudden request and by the soft look that met him on John’s face. The dream has clearly affected John more than I anticipated, Sherlock mused, although he was sure he’d detected something else in John’s eyes. Something he couldn’t quite distinguish.

John was sat up in the bed, his bare chest exposed, his short sandy hair ruffled from sleep, eyes wide and liquid. He had never looked so exposed and in need of Sherlock until this moment. Sherlock’s stomach quivered and he felt a tug at his feet. It was a few seconds before he realised he was stepping forwards without regard for cause or consequence, without reducing John’s request to facts, probabilities, motivations or conclusions. His only thought at that moment was the burning desire to lie with John, their hot flesh sticking together, the happy oblivion that lay in the sleep he was so rarely granted but he knew would find him with John at his side.

And John welcomed him in.


End file.
